The Eight Strokes of the Clock by Maurice Leblanc (best non fiction books to read TXT) 📕

Twenty minutes passed in absolute silence. Rénine paced the room, in which the fine old furniture, the handsome tapestries, the well-bound books and pretty knickknacks denoted a love of art and a seeking after style in Jean Louis. This room was really his. In the adjoining apartments on either side, through the open doors, Rénine was able to note the bad taste of the two mothers.

He went up to Jean Louis and, in a low voice, asked:

“Are they well off?”

“Yes.”

“And you?”

“They settled the manor-house upon me, with all the land around it, which makes me quite independent.”

“Have they any relations?”

“Sisters, both of them.”

“With whom they could go to live?”

“Yes; and they have sometimes thought of doing so. But there can’t be any question of that. Once more, I assure you.⁠ ⁠…”

Meantime the car had returned. The two women jumped up hurriedly, ready to speak.

“Leave it to me,” said Rénine, “and don’t be surprised by anything that I say. It’s not a matter of asking her questions but of frightening her, of flurrying her.⁠ ⁠… The sudden attack,” he added between his teeth.

The car drove round the lawn and drew up outside the windows. Hortense sprang out and helped an old woman to alight, dressed in a fluted linen cap, a black velvet bodice and a heavy gathered skirt.

The old woman entered in a great state of alarm. She had a pointed face, like a weasel’s, with a prominent mouth full of protruding teeth.

“What’s the matter, Madame d’Imbleval?” she asked, timidly stepping into the room from which the doctor had once driven her. “Good day to you, Madame Vaurois.”

The ladies did not reply. Rénine came forward and said, sternly:

“Mlle. Boussignol, I have been sent by the Paris police to throw light upon a tragedy which took place here twenty-seven years ago. I have just secured evidence that you have distorted the truth and that, as the result of your false declarations, the birth-certificate of one of the children born in the course of that night is inaccurate. Now false declarations in matters of birth-certificates are misdemeanours punishable by law. I shall therefore be obliged to take you to Paris to be interrogated⁠ ⁠… unless you are prepared here and now to confess everything that might repair the consequences of your offence.”

The old maid was shaking in every limb. Her teeth were chattering. She was evidently incapable of opposing the least resistance to Rénine.

“Are you ready to confess everything?” he asked.

“Yes,” she panted.

“Without delay? I have to catch a train. The business must be settled immediately. If you show the least hesitation, I take you with me. Have you made up your mind to speak?”

“Yes.”

He pointed to Jean Louis:

“Whose son is this gentleman? Madame d’Imbleval’s?”

“No.”

“Madame Vaurois’, therefore?”

“No.”

A stupefied silence welcomed the two replies.

“Explain yourself,” Rénine commanded, looking at his watch.

Then Madame Boussignol fell on her knees and said, in so low and dull a voice that they had to bend over her in order to catch the sense of what she was mumbling:

“Someone came in the evening⁠ ⁠… a gentleman with a newborn baby wrapped in blankets, which he wanted the doctor to look after. As the doctor wasn’t there, he waited all night and it was he who did it all.”

“Did what?” asked Rénine. “What did he do? What happened?”

“Well, what happened was that it was not one child but the two of them that died: Madame d’Imbleval’s and Madame Vaurois’ too, both in convulsions. Then the gentleman, seeing this, said, ‘This shows me where my duty lies. I must seize this opportunity of making sure that my own boy shall be happy and well cared for. Put him in the place of one of the dead children.’ He offered me a big sum of money, saying that this one payment would save him the expense of providing for his child every month; and I accepted. Only, I did not know in whose place to put him and whether to say that the boy was Louis d’Imbleval or Jean Vaurois. The gentleman thought a moment and said neither. Then he explained to me what I was to do and what I was to say after he had gone. And, while I was dressing his boy in vest and binders the same as one of the dead children, he wrapped the other in the blankets he had brought with him and went out into the night.”

Mlle. Boussignol bent her head and wept. After a moment, Rénine said:

“Your deposition agrees with the result of my investigations.”

“Can I go?”

“Yes.”

“And is it over, as far as I’m concerned? They won’t be talking about this all over the district?”

“No. Oh, just one more question: do you know the man’s name?”

“No. He didn’t tell me his name.”

“Have you ever seen him since?”

“Never.”

“Have you anything more to say?”

“No.”

“Are you prepared to sign the written text of your confession?”

“Yes.”

“Very well. I shall send for you in a week or two. Till then, not a word to anybody.”

He saw her to the door and closed it after her. When he returned, Jean Louis was between the two old ladies and all three were holding hands. The bond of hatred and wretchedness which had bound them had suddenly snapped; and this rupture, without requiring them to reflect upon the matter, filled them with a gentle tranquillity of which they were hardly conscious, but which made them serious and thoughtful.

“Let’s rush things,” said Rénine to Hortense. “This is the decisive moment of the battle. We must get Jean Louis on board.”

Hortense seemed preoccupied. She whispered:

“Why did you let the woman go? Were you satisfied with her statement?”

“I don’t need to be satisfied. She told us what happened. What more do you want?”

“Nothing.⁠ ⁠… I don’t know.⁠ ⁠…”

“We’ll talk about it later, my dear. For the moment, I repeat, we must get Jean Louis on board. And immediately.⁠ ⁠… Otherwise.⁠ ⁠…”

He turned to the young man:

“You agree with me, don’t you, that, things being as they are, it is best for you and Madame Vaurois and